


Stolen

by TheProfessor



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:23:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheProfessor/pseuds/TheProfessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Da Vinci is stolen from the National Gallery. Sherlock knows more about the thief than he cares to tell Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is strangely... compartmentalized? Trying something new, I suppose.

"Sherlock, your phone. It rang four times already, it's probably Lestrade."

"Busy," Sherlock replied, fiddling with the microscope in front of him.

John sighed and crossed the room, reaching into the pocket of the suit jacket that Sherlock had carefully splayed across the couch. He answered, much to Lestrade's relief.

"Hello, John speaking."

"John, where the hell is Sherlock?"

"Says he's busy, what's wrong?"

"Tell him to get his bloody arse down to the National Gallery. A Da Vinci's been stolen."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Which Da Vinci?"

"The Virgin of the Rocks," Lestrade said, pushing past security toward the now empty spot on the wall where the painting used to sit. John and Sherlock followed closely. The latter took in his surroundings carefully, noting the distinct lack of details.

"Point of entry?"

"That's the problem; there wasn't one," Lestrade responded. "The only things that caught her were the cameras. By the time security sounded the alarm and got here, both she and the picture were gone. No one saw her come, no one saw her go."

"She?" John asked.

"Yes, a woman," Sherlock said, as they approached the abhorrent, blank patch. "That's lipstick on the wall."

Next to the spot where the painting used to sit sat a message in red lipstick. 'Sorry, boys. But expect this one back. Eventually. x'

"Sealed with a kiss?" John asked, amused. "Do you know who she is?"

"...Let me see the video footage."

xxxxxxxxxx

"What do you mean you can't do anything?"

"The painting is lost, Lestrade. Unless she returns it, which is just as likely as not."

"But how-"

"You wouldn't believe me. I'll let you know if it turns up."

xxxxxxxxxx

"So who is she?" John asked, climbing out of the cab in front of 221B.

"Trouble," Sherlock replied, stepping up to the door and stopping short.

"What?" John asked, slowing his gait.

"She's here." Sherlock sounded mildly amused, but not at all surprised. The exterior lock had a scratch on it that was not there before; he wasn't sure if she put it there because she needed to, or if she was just trying to irritate him.

The both of them ascended the stairs into their flat. And there, sprawled with her legs over the armrest and deep in a thick book, sat the woman from the security video. The stolen Da Vinci lay across the coffee table, much to the surprise of both of them, if Sherlock was being honest.

"Was the scratch on the lock necessary?"

"Don't worry - I break it next time. But I buy you a replacement eventually." She flipped a page in the book casually, as if she lived here or was invited in to stay for a very long time.

"Sorry - who are you?" John asked, perturbed that a thief would break into a flat - one that was half his - and decide to stay for a bit.

"Oh!" She swung her - admittedly, John thought - lovely legs over the armrest and back down to the floor. The book was forgotten on the side table. "I didn't realize. Never do look at dates anymore." She stood from the chair and crossed the room, holding a hand out to John. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Doctor River Song."

"Right." He ignored her proffered hand and turned to Sherlock. "Who is she?"

"Shake her hand, John." Sherlock replied distractedly, while texting Lestrade that he was now in possession of the missing painting.

"You know me, John," River said sweetly, her fantastic hair lending the space above her head a rather halo-esque appearance. "I've met you before, but you haven't met me. Until today."

"Wait, does this start happening a lot?" John blurted.

"That depends on your definition of a lot," River said, laughing. "Sometimes I do show up... unannounced."

"With stolen things." Sherlock pocketed his phone.

"Not always!" She protested. "This time it was necessary; Da Vinci needed proof. He wouldn't paint the thing until we showed him what it looked like at the end."

"Couldn't you have just used a poster?" John said, eyeing the painting. "They have those, you know."

"Da Vinci is a genius, he knows his own work. It had to be the genuine article."

"You ended up securing the painting's existence," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, so really, it's not all that bad," she replied mischievously. "But we don't need it any longer."

"Okay, wait." John held up his hands in defeat. "How could she meet Da Vinci? Or me without me meeting her?"

"Time travel, sweetie." River smiled. "You'll get used to it."

"Time- Okay. I'm done." John flopped down on the couch.

"She's not lying," Sherlock supplied, shucking off his coat and scarf. River began punching in coordinates on her vortex manipulator. "Leaving so soon?"

"I'm afraid so," River replied. "He's already in the vortex waiting for me. We're off to the jungles of Brazil in 1965. Something about a dinosaur."

"Ah," he replied mildly, as John looked on in intense confusion.

"I'll see you boys later." She gave John a wink and suddenly disappeared in a cloud of electricity.

"What the-" John jumped out of his seat. "She's... gone?"

"Vortex manipulator," Sherlock replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"A... what?"

"A... time travel bracelet. Essentially."

John stared at the spot where River had been standing for a long moment. "Alright," he finally conceded. "Time travel. But who is she? An old friend?"

Sherlock took his previous spot at the kitchen table with the microscope. "An old friend? No. But an old something, anyway."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megg suggested that this should be a series and now suddenly it is. Funny how these things work.
> 
> Who knows where these two are at. Also, the river isn't frozen over, okay? Lol

"Sherlock, he's over here!" John yelled, alerting the consulting detective to the exact location of the criminal they were currently in hot pursuit of.

Sherlock backpedaled and ran in the direction of John's voice. The warehouse was dark and expansive, lying on the shore of the river, next to one of the many bridges that were built across it. It was the middle of the day, but the building had little to no light to speak of, only windows that were boarded up or broken.

The pair followed the man, who had been accused of kidnapping an important Government official, through the halls and rooms. Even John's aim wasn't good enough to shoot a man who was so surprisingly fast that he managed to duck and weave through piles of crates as tall as he was.

The man burst through the exit doors, running toward the walkway that led to the bridge. Sherlock realized too late that it was a drawbridge and a cargo ship was coming through; if he got to the other side before the bridge was raised, they would lose him. "John, hurry up!"

John huffed into the cold winter air and ran faster. Sherlock was directly in front of him, blocking his view of the criminal. His lungs burned with every breath he took. Who decided this was a good idea in mid-January? They turned up the narrow railed walkway, one after the other.

Despite his consistent observatory nature, Sherlock did make mistakes every once in a while. He took this exact moment to make one of these mistakes, by slipping on a thick patch of ice.

He managed to fall on his knees instead of his hands, preventing what would have been a nasty wrist injury. He cursed and John skidded to a halt, almost falling himself. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock ignored the question and grabbed the railings with his hands, pulling himself to his feet. He took off running again, now considerably behind the man who just might be getting away this time. John sighed and followed him.

When they reached the top of the walkway and stepped onto the bridge, they were utterly dumbfounded at what they saw. The criminal was being handcuffed to the bridge by a svelte woman in clothes that were far too light for the weather she was standing in. "River?"

"Hello you two," she purred, turning away from the man who was trying in vain to pull his hand from the cuffs. "Thought you could use some help."

"What are you doing here?" John asked, as Sherlock pulled out his phone to call Lestrade.

"Vortex manipulator brought me here unexpectedly. It needs to be repaired, I think. Now I'm just waiting for my ride." River walked to the railing and climbed up on it, despite John's insisting that she get down before she falls.

"Lestrade is on his way," Sherlock said, pocketing the phone. "Dare I ask where you got the handcuffs?"

"Oh, those are Greg's," she said with a grin. "I nicked them last time this thing sent me to Scotland Yard." She shook her wrist for emphasis.

A wheezing noise filled the air as the sirens of police cars finally reached their ears.

"Looks like my ride is here!" River said. "You boys be good, now!" The TARDIS materialized just on the lip of the railing and she waved them both goodbye, walking backward into its depths. John watched her go, gaping at the blue box. Sherlock seemed, as per usual, disinterested. The wheezing noise returned and the box faded into nothing.

The squad cars pulled up to the bridge and Lestrade got out. They unhooked the man from the bridge, who was cursing obscenities and babbling about disappearing boxes, and shoved him into the back of one of the cars. Lestrade held the handcuffs out to Sherlock.

"Those are yours, not mine," the consulting detective announced, walking away before Greg could yell at him for stealing them.

Lestrade reached for the cuffs on his belt, but they weren't there. He stared, dumbfounded, as both members of 221B Baker Street made a quick exit.

Neither of them were looking forward to having to explain that.


	3. Chapter 3

“River, you can't keep it!” John grabbed the half empty cup of tea out of her hands.

She frowned, looking down at them with a disconcerted expression. “Why not?”

“Because the De Beers' company are threatening to go to the Government and have you extradited from the UK to get it back,” John huffed, crossing the flat to the kitchen and pouring the lukewarm tea down the sink.

“I wasn't done with that,” she grumbled, putting her feet up on the coffee table. John stalked over and swept her feet off it. She crossed her arms.

“Sherlock, please talk to her,” John said, throwing his arms into the air.

Sherlock looked up from his examination of the deed. “It's the genuine article, that much is certain.” He carefully rolled it up and tied the ribbon around it, as if it had never been touched.

“Well, of course it is,” River huffed. “They aren't going to give the deed to any bank, even a Swiss one, it's far too valuable for that. They'll have it near them, where it can be monitored and kept safe.”

“Except from River Song,” John said, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his newly brewed cup of tea. River stared longingly at the steaming mug.

“You know the deed isn't in your name,” Sherlock said, standing from the kitchen table and walking to where she sat. “You have no rights to anything inside that mine.” He handed the deed back to her and she smiled her flirty smile. It had never worked on Sherlock and had ceased to work on John a long time ago.

“But diamonds are a girl's best friend!” she protested, tucking the deed away in her jacket pocket. “I can get the deed in my name easily, with a bit of time hopping and lipstick.” She stood, following Sherlock back into the kitchen.

“No, River,” John glared at her. “What would the Doctor say?”

“He doesn't have to know,” she said, plucking the cup of tea from his hands.

John frowned. “It's like you're a second Sherlock. But with even more ridiculous hair.”

Sherlock frowned. “What's wrong with my hair?”

“What's wrong with his hair?” she asked, taking a drink and making a face. “Ugh. Too much sugar.” She poured the liquid down the sink.

John snatched the empty mug back from her. “You take the deed back to the De Beers' company. River Song does not get her own diamond mine.”

“The only reason they know it was me was because of that bloody forensics man,” she pouted. “Listening in on conversations.”

Sherlock smiled and sat back in his chair. John rolled his eyes.

“Just take it back, okay? Neither of us wants to turn you in.”

“You think you'll actually manage to turn me in?” she said, hands on her hips. Sherlock watched their exchange out of the corner of his eye.

“Well... No,” John admitted, a bit put off. “But it's the right thing to do.” He did not know what to do with River half the time. Stealing things seemed to be her hobby and no one was around to stop her when the Doctor was absent. Truth be told, he didn't want to see her hurt, though he wasn't quite sure if anyone was really capable of that.

She rolled her eyes. “Alright, I give up. I'll take it back.” She pulled the sleeve of her jacket up. “If I get caught and imprisoned, it's your fault.”

“It's your fault,” John countered, watching her type coordinates into her vortex manipulator. She pressed a button and disappeared.

John sighed. “Glad that's sorted-”

Another jolt of energy and there she was again. “Hello, boys!” she said, arms full of things that John didn't recognize, but Sherlock did.

“River, are those the-”

“Nice to see you both again and so forth, I'll see you later, ta!” She bounded out of the room and down the stairs into the evening light.

“What did she take this time?”

“The Dead Sea Scrolls,” Sherlock mused, pulling the microscope over to his spot.

John hung his head. “I'm going to sleep.”


	4. Chapter 4

It didn't help that River was a flirt.

Sometimes he was actually happy to see her, mostly because she flirted with him and batted her pretty eyes for a cup of tea.

But her constant visits to 221B and appearances while they were on cases confused John. Sherlock took it in his stride, never at all surprised to see that curly halo of hair pop up on all sorts of occasions.

Except once.

River had phoned them from a small, local airport, speaking faster than even Sherlock did on his best days. She demanded that they come to see what she explained was “a treat”. John was skeptical. Sherlock said nothing, but put on his coat and called a cab anyway.

The cab ride was quiet and calm. John knew where this airport was, but he had never been there. He complained about being hungry and Sherlock mumbled something about takeaway after they got back home. This placated the ex-army soldier and he went back to staring out the window.

They arrived at the airstrip twenty minutes later. John paid the cab driver because Sherlock jumped from the vehicle the instant that it rolled to a stop. In the distance, a lone plane sat on the asphalt. They walked toward it.

As they approached, River stuck her head out the door. “Isn't she beautiful?!”

John gaped. “River, that's-”

“Amelia Earhart's airplane,” Sherlock finished for him, sounding for all the world like he wasn't expecting this. “Mint condition, probably stolen within a week of her famous flight.”

“John, sweetie, your jaw is bumping against your knees,” River cooed, climbing down from the plane. “Don't give me that look, Watson. I'm not keeping this one.”

“I should hope not,” he grumbled.

Curiosity grabbed Sherlock by the collar and he spent most of the time at the airfield examining the plane, inside and out. John and River had a mildly pleasant conversation about flying the plane.

“I was thinking about installing a temporal distortion array,” she said, watching Sherlock flutter around the plane like a bird.

“A... what?”

“A device that tracks time distortions,” River explained. “That's what happened to her, really. Sucked into a time distortion over the Bermuda Triangle. It's famous for missing people, as you know. Largest time distortion on the planet.”

“Wait, you can't just give her a way out of it,” John said. “That's going to change history.”

River shrugged. “Better she stay here than go where she ended up.”

Sherlock finished his inspection of the plane and River promised to return it immediately. John chided her for the temporal distortion array, but he never did get her to say she wouldn't install it.

A week later, John was online, looking up details about Amelia Earhardt's last flight. Nothing had changed; perhaps the Doctor had managed to convinced her not to change history.

“No,” Sherlock replied, when John told him about it. “She didn’t install it. They just took Amelia Earhart elsewhere.”


	5. Chapter 5

"River, what are you wearing?"

"Do you like it?" she asked, turning this way and that, modeling the fedora for John and the Doctor. Sherlock was ignoring the Christmas festivities and typing up a blog entry on John's laptop.

"You never did say where you got it," the Doctor said, pouring copious amounts of egg nog into four glasses. John snuck a bit of rum into his and River's when the Doctor wasn't looking. She winked at him in thanks.

"Oh, somewhere," she said casually, sipping the delicious drink. John and the Doctor were across from each other in the armchairs. River sat on the armrest to the left of her husband. "It was a gift, if I remember."

"That's new," John said, taking a swig. "You sure it wasn't a five finger discount?"

She thought for a moment. "Actually, I think it was."

"River..." The Doctor chided, putting a set of felt reindeer antlers on his head. "I've told you to stop stealing things."

"And I've told you to stop wearing that ridiculous hat," she commented, downing half the egg nog in one go.

"Never," he declared, jamming them more firmly onto his head. "It's Christmas." The evidence of this included the TARDIS sitting in the corner of the living room, covered in fake snow and tinsel, colored bulbs and a wreath. In lieu of a Christmas tree, the Doctor said. The snowflakes drawn on the flat's foggy windows were River's doing.

"Who'd you steal it from?" John asked, feeling the rum warm his belly. It had been a long time since he and Sherlock had seen or heard anything from River, and now the Doctor was here too. He pushed Sherlock's glass toward him, but the consulting detective ignored it.

"I remember now." She drained the glass and set it down on the side table. "I took it from Al Capone."

"You stole a fedora from Al Capone?" John asked, tearing himself away from his cup.

She grinned. "I beat him in a game of poker and he wasn't a good sport."

"Cheated in a game of poker," Sherlock murmured, continuing to type on the laptop.

"Oh, hush you," she chided. The Doctor abruptly pulled apart a Christmas cracker and she and John almost jumped out of their skins. He grinned and pulled the paper crown from inside, handing it to John.

"There, now Sherlock just needs a hat."

"I don't need a hat, thank you." Sherlock finished his blog entry and shut the laptop. He made his way back to the kitchen table where a microscope and several old pollen samples sat for inspection.

"He doesn't like Christmas," John mouthed, gesturing back to his flatmate with a nod.

"I noticed," River murmured.

"I heard that," Sherlock said, staring down into the microscope.

"Sherlock," the Doctor called from the living room. "There's going to be a robbery tomorrow."

The consulting detective perked up. "Is there now?"

"Yes," the Doctor insisted. "Christmas robbery, two simultaneous jewelry stores. You'll enjoy it."

Sherlock nodded in understanding. The rest of the night was spent full of conversation, with the now happy detective actually contributing to the revelry once in a while.


	6. Chapter 6

John woke one lovely Spring morning to find Miss River Song asleep on the living room couch.

She had something unfamiliar and colorful wrapped around her entire body, from neck to feet, but he could not tell what it was. She seemed comfortable, so he let her be.

Sherlock was still asleep. Not surprising since he had not slept in three days and finally decided to fall in bed around four in the morning. John crept around the kitchen, making as little noise as possible. He filled the kettle with water, put bread in the toaster, and walked down the stairs to the front door to fetch the morning paper.

Upon returning to 221B with the paper, River was sitting up on the couch, yawning a massive yawn. Her hair was- well, it looked the same as it always did. “Good morning, River,” John said. “When did you get here?”

“Early this morning,” she answered, rubbing sleep from her eye. “You were both sleeping, but I thought you wouldn't mind.”

John shrugged. “Not really. Hungry?”

“A bit,” she conceded, standing to unwrap herself from the thing around her neck.

“What is that, anyway?”

“It's a-”

River's voice died in her mouth as the wheezing of the TARDIS reached their ears. It appeared in the middle of room, blinking into existence next to the coffee table. The door flew open and the Doctor stalked out to corner River, ignoring John completely.

“Hello sweetie,” she smiled.

The Doctor reached out and grabbed the thing from around her neck, pulling the loops over her head and jamming it around his own. “My scarf,” he announced. He marched back into the TARDIS and River giggled for the entire duration of its dematerialization sequence.

John just shook his head. “You would think I'd stop being surprised by now.”


	7. Chapter 7

"Let me get this straight." John leaned his head against his fist, already sick of dealing with River's visit today. "You stole the Rosetta Stone."

"I'm borrowing it!" she insisted. "It's safe on the moon. I need it for my archeology degree."

"But you stole it from 1798," Sherlock clarified. "It will never properly be found unless you take it back to precisely the exact time you stole it."

"I will!" she insisted, flashing her wrist. "Vortex manipulator, remember? It's far more exact and reliable than the TARDIS." A brief memory flashed in John's head of their accidental trip to Rome, the planet, instead of Rome, the city. Too many naked aliens. Sherlock had deleted the experience altogether. John almost wished he had that luxury.

"Why are you even here?" John asked, letting his hand fall to the armrest. "You must have better things to do than tell us about all the things you've stolen."

"The Doctor is coming to pick me up here," she clarified. "Sometime."

"That could be years from now," Sherlock pointed out, just as the wheezing sound of the TARDIS began to sound from the living room.

"Or now," she said, pleased. The machine ground to a halt and the Doctor raced out of it, panting heavily.

"River, there's a war brewing. Someone stole the Rosetta Stone from 1835 and-"

"You see?" John said, grabbing his newspaper from the side table. "That thing on your wrist isn't as reliable as you seem to think."

"What?" The Doctor looked back and forth between John and River, confused as confused could be.

River rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh, alright. Let's go and get it." She dragged a bewildered Doctor back into the TARDIS and they took off, much to John's relief.

"She almost needs a leash," Sherlock murmured, tapping a drop of purple liquid into a petri dish.

"You could say that again."


End file.
